


Johns first kill was without Sherlock. Obviously.

by peanut49045



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After the Fall, BAMF John, Dark John, Gen, John goes a little crazy, Johnlock - Freeform, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 15:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15633534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanut49045/pseuds/peanut49045
Summary: Within days of knowing each other, John had killed for Sherlock. From that day on, John knew that nothing else mattered. There was only Sherlock.And then there wasn’t.





	Johns first kill was without Sherlock. Obviously.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes at bottom. Enjoy!

Johns first kill was without Sherlock. Obviously. First deployment to Afghanistan. A fact that Sherlock picked up within seconds of meeting. He was only a couple of months or so out of basic training and then suddenly he was there. With his gun trained on a man. A man his superiors told him did not belong of this earth any longer. He took the shot. That was his first.

 

By the time he was shot himself, he had lost count. Laying there in the grass, he wondered who was his last. He wondered if he would be confronted by all those men in heaven. But to be honest, he wasn’t going to heaven.

 

The next was for Sherlock. Within days of knowing each other, John had killed for Sherlock. From that day on, John knew that nothing else mattered. There was only Sherlock.

 

And then, there wasn’t. It seemed like seconds from their first meeting to John seeing the blood on the pavement. John had to blink twice just to make sure it wasn’t a dream. A nightmare. But it wasn’t. It was all too real.

 

After, there was only John. Some people tried to help him. To get him out of bed. Down to the pub. To the hospital. Even to the living room. But it didn’t matter. The world was gray without Sherlock.

 

But one morning it wasn’t. It was red. The flat started to look like Sherlock was home again. Scraps of paper pinned to the walls. Laptops open and strewn across the floor. Cups of coffee cold and forgotten on the desk. Everything was covered. Save for Sherlock’s chair. John would look at that chair sometimes. He could see Sherlock there. Sitting with his hands under his chin. Eyes closed. Thinking. One day John hoped he would open his eyes. So he could see those impossible eyes light up once more. But they never did.

 

His next kill was also for Sherlock. And his next. And his next. And everyone since. At first he would shake. The gun in one hand. Pointed at some nobody. Some nobody who had a distant relationship to the man that caused Sherlock’s death. The gun would tremble slightly as John tried to hold back the tears. He often failed. But after John had worked his way from the nobodies to the somebodies, he’s hands became steadier. His eyes became dryer.

 

He had lost count again. All John knew was that it was all for him. All for Sherlock. He had started to smirk. Smiling at the people on the other end of his gun. He was passed crying. Passed shouting and yelling. Even passed a calm integration. Now he was smiling. With a quick trigger finger.

 

He was growing impatient. It was becoming to feel like ages since the fall. He had started to become afraid that Sherlock would not be sitting in his chair when he got home. Afraid that his mind would bar him from ever seeing those eyes open. He was afraid.

 

This might be the last. That was the thought the crossed Johns mind. As he stood there. Gun in one hand. Still as a rock. The man on his knee was talking. In that sing song voice. But John could not hear him. All he could hear was the blood in his ears and the crack of body against pavement. Again. And again. And again. It was the cleanest shot John had ever made.

 

Sherlock was not in his chair when John came home. The room felt empty. John slept on the couch that night. Surrounded by the scraps of paper. Paper which no longer had any meaning. It was the best sleep John had ever had.

 

When he woke up, Sherlock was there. In his chair. With his eyes open. He was watching John like a hawk. John stared back.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello
> 
> I hoped you liked it.  
> If you did feel free to give kudos and comments
> 
> Kinda don’t like the title. Any other ideas?!
> 
> Every and all comments are welcome. Find a spelling mistake? Tell me! I’m sure this is at least a couple.  
> Grammar mistake? Probably hundreds. Tell me so I can fix them!!
> 
> I don’t usually write. And it’s only my third shot at it so bear with me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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